Last night there was a woman
where my girl was and she said to me,
“This. That’s what he did.”
A woman isn’t born vulnerable, but
vulnerability is a part of personhood
and being self-aware of insecurities
is more vividly human than vibrancy;
more sexy than secrecy.
I’d compose her movement to music
or pen it on paper, proffer it as poetry
and profess confessions as love
but I’d rather be on standby—
even as passerby—
because I ache and I ache
all the time now, for her.
For her I am sore and unstomachable
and nurse wounds that aren’t mine.
For her, I worry.
I worry and I tighten knots,
practice my box, bow tie, square, slip,
and double coin knots and remember
that the method to madness is comfort;
being complacent with sanity
makes for insanity
and being complacent with a lover
is to take them for granted.
I tighten the same knot
and expect the same result,
wind the bight around again,
again, and again. And bite.
I knot, bight;